


Hunt and Game

by NewWonder



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Foreshadowing, M/M, Oral Sex, kindly janitor, slightly creepy but w/o any grievous bodily harm (yet)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 14:46:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewWonder/pseuds/NewWonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Never worry, my lord," he said. "I’ll take you back where you belong, I promise. Just you see."</p>
<p>Or, the beginning of a beautiful flayship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunt and Game

**Author's Note:**

> Ramsay is depicted as having pretty lips in this thing here, so that probably makes him OOC? Idke. But I figured, if people can handle hot!TV!Jorah, surely they wouldn't mind pretty!Iwan!Ramsay too much? (He's only pretty when he pretends to be sane anyway.)

They rode all day and made a stop in the evening. Theon felt like he could fall off his horse at any moment, but his saviour didn’t seem tired at all.

He caught a coney, slit its throat to let out the blood and skinned it before roasting it over the fire. He wielded the knife deftly, and his hands were sure, knowing and precise. Theon couldn’t help but admire his skill.

They ate the coney with their bare hands, and the meat, fresh from the fire, burned Theon’s palms. It hadn’t roasted enough, and red sizzling juice splattered on Theon’s fingers, leaving pink angry patches on his skin.

The meat had burned Theon’s tongue, too; it still stung, but less than his feet. The wounds opened and were slowly bleeding; the touch of the leather of his boots to them felt like somebody was pressing a hot fire rake to his skin.

His saviour gazed upon his feet with a worried look.

"Let me clean them," he said. "Let me wrap them up. You’re too tired."

Theon thought he saw his eyes glisten; with tears, no doubt. Well, his feet _were_ a rather grizzly sight. Theon was touched. He was truly lucky, to have such a devoted man follow him. He would make sure his rescuer would be properly rewarded… what was his name, again? He saved Theon’s life, and Theon didn’t even know his name.

And he was right; Theon’s eyes were drooping, and he felt as weak as a newborn kitten. It seemed the struggle with the chasers had drained the last of his strength. He was woozy, and he could barely lift a hand. The wounds hurt, too.

So he said yes, with a smile that felt weak but showed teeth nonetheless.

The lad found a brook nearby and brought water in a hog-skin. It was muddy and tepid, the sleepy warm laziness of a slow stream touched by the chilly breath of autumn. The boy made use of it, scrubbing Theon’s feet as best as he could, his hands steady but gentle. When his fingertips lightly touched the tender soles of Theon’s feet, Theon couldn’t contain a small shiver. His saviour looked at him from under his thick, dark, unruly bangs and smiled. The he bandaged the wound with a strip of cloth, torn, ragged and in noticeable need of washing, and offered Theon some more meat.

It had cooled, and his tongue was stinging less. Theon tore into the meat with relish, gulping it down, swallowing the chunks whole rather than chewing them, never minding the fibres that caught between his teeth. He felt his mouth water until he could have drooled, he felt sweet meat filling his belly. He felt the warmth of the fire, and the closeness of the man sitting beside him. He felt tired and comfortable and sleepy. He felt _alive_ , and it was the best feeling in the world.

Despite the torture and disgrace, despite his men’s betrayal, despite the meat being raw, Theon felt happy. He smiled at his rescuer. The boy nodded to him, biting into his piece. The blood trickled down his fingers, staining them red. He licked them thoroughly with a quick pink tongue, never letting a single drop escape, stuck his fingers into his mouth and sucked. Then he released them with a loud wet pop.

"Shall we sleep?" he asked. Theon nodded drowsily, and they huddled together for warmth.

"You’ve got blood on your face, my lord," the boy said. He wiped the droplet away with his thumb and licked it clean, then covered them both with his cloak. They slept.

At night, the lad rolled on top of Theon, caging him with his arms and legs. He was heavy, impossible to move. Upon waking, Theon at first struggled to push him off, but it was no use: Theon was still too weak. Besides, the boy was as warm as a stove, and it was nippy outside. Theon’s nose got cold. He made himself as comfortable as he could and studied his saviour’s face.

It was relaxed and peaceful, and the boy’s lips opened slightly, making him look innocent like a child. Theon thought about what might have happened to him if the boy didn’t come, and shuddered.

He was still reluctant to trust him, though.

When the lad suddenly showed up in the forest this morning to rescue Theon once again, he looked – frankly, he looked unsettling. There was a ruthlessness about him that strangely contrasted with the kindness he had shown to Theon, and his eyes were two sharp, cold daggers, and he shot a man like he would squash a cockroach.

Theon hardly felt sorry for that scum. But he did feel – anxious, for himself.

This boy had saved his life – twice. Theon didn’t have to fear him; and yet he did, and when the broomsweep approached him, Theon scuttled away. That must have been the fear talking within him, because the lad helped him get up and promised to take him home.

"Never worry, my lord," he said. "I’ll take you back where you belong, I promise. Just you see."

Did Theon even have a home? He guessed not, what with Winterfell lying in ashes and Pyke cold and unwelcoming towards the youngest kraken that had been taken away to the dry land so long ago that he had to learn since how to walk and breathe air. But he had not forgotten how to swim, oh yes, he was still a Greyjoy, of salt and steel. And he still had a sister, she did not abandon him.

If he didn’t have a home, he’d make one, and pay an iron price for the bricks and timber – like the true Greyjoy that he was. And maybe, if father saw him – unbent and unbroken, proud and strong, – he would acknowledge him, and welcome him back.

Only if it weren’t for the thing his jailer told him. A lie, a jape, it was. Had to be.

(He had been afraid to ask the boy, and after he got his answer, he wished he didn’t.)

 

They rode the next day and the day after that, and Theon’s wounds slowly closed. His saviour looked upon them, hummed and gave an approving nod. Theon even managed to catch some game, and later, when his saviour was skinning it, quick and deft, Theon said:

"You never told me your name. What is it?"

The boy threw a quick glance at him, never stopping with the flaying.

"They called me Reek, those who tortured you. I had to tend to the dogs, too, and they said I smelt of dog."

"Is it – your real name?" Theon asked. The boy smelt of sweat and blood and horse, just like Theon himself. He most certainly didn’t stink, though.

"No," the boy said. "No, it isn’t."

Theon waited, but the boy fell silent. So Reek it was, then. Theon wasn’t picky.

They ate and lay to sleep. Theon closed his eyes, relishing the warmth at his back. The days were growing colder.

He felt a cautious hand probe at his lacings, gently touching his stomach that bulged slightly from all the good food they supped on. Theon scrambled away, kicking. He wheezed, feeling terror rise inside him, like a tide. Reek blinked at him, pale eyes large and innocent.

"What happened?" he said.

"What ha– _What happened?_ " Theon choked. "What do you think you’re doing!"

"Nothing," Reek shrugged. "I only mean to soothe your weariness, my lord. You’re tired and hurting. I just want to help, is all."

"Are you like _them_ , then?" Theon demanded, with as much scorn as he could muster. He was afraid; he hated that. He was tired of being afraid.

"Like _them_? Oh no, my lord, I promise you I’m _nothing_ like them." And Reek smiled reassuringly, but his eyes glistened with what Theon now thought was hunger. "I promise, I won’t do anything you won’t like. Just let me…" His hand wormed his way back into Theon’s clothing, Reek suddenly so much closer than before, and Theon shot him a wary look but then those deft fingers found his dick and started stroking, fast and sure, just like they were with a knife in the daylight. Theon moaned, feeling himself harden. It’s been too long, and it wasn’t like it was uncommon for men to relieve each other of the tension between battles if whores were scarce to be found. He helped Robb like that himself, once or twice, and Robb returned the favour with an unskilled hand. Reek’s hands were so much more confident, though, and _forceful_. Theon found he liked it (or, rather, his dick did).

Reek unlaced his breeches with one hand, never ceasing with the stroking. Theon feared he would make a move to pull them off, and his hands clutched desperately at the fabric, but Reek did no such thing. He only pulled out his dick, letting his balls hang out, and swallowed it to the root.

Theon groaned. Maybe. He couldn’t remember. It felt too good and his head was muddled. That mouth slid off him, and Theon barely contained a disappointed whine.

Reek’s mouth was pretty, Theon noticed; full shapely lips, almost like a girl’s. Well, at least Theon could pretend it was a woman’s mouth, he thought as those lips wrapped around him again, at last.

He was greedy, his saviour; he sucked and swallowed like he wanted to eat Theon whole and leave nothing after. There was little finesse about the way his mouth worked, and a lot of raw power, and Theon felt overwhelmed and unbearably aroused. It must have truly been too long.

Reek licked and sucked and slurped, his cheeks hollowing and chin glistening with spit, and Theon fell apart. His shaking hands blindly scratched at the ground, the wetness of the fallen, rotting leaves clinging to them, his eyes rolled in his head and his mouth fell open, panting and forming shreds of words, wretched gasps. Reek’s eyes glinted in the darkness, and then he took him out of his mouth and whispered hoarsely:

"Come for me, my lord. I want to hear you scream."

Then he covered Theon’s dick with his lips again, and Theon felt the sea that rose and sang in him finally burst through. Maybe it was the long abstinence; maybe it had been the relief, the joy of being alive and free and far, far away from that terrible cross, but the ecstasy that surged through him as he came was almost impossible to contain. He shook and thrashed, arching his back in a wild stretch, and screamed himself hoarse.

He lay boneless and panting, staring at the starless sky with unseeing eyes, when he felt Reek lace him back and cover him with his warm woollen cloak. He reached for him blindly and felt hardness in Reek’s trousers.

"Do you want me to take care of it?" he offered. As long as there was only this sort of touching going on… Well, it was only fair to return the favour.

He saw Reek’s eyes widen in the pale moonlight.

"My lord doesn’t have to… It would be a great honour…"

"Yeah, just lay down," Theon ordered. He fumbled with the lacings, and his hands were weak and wouldn’t obey him, but Reek came soon enough with a quiet groan and a shudder. They huddled together for sleep like they did every time. Theon would’ve thought it would be awkward in the morning, but it wasn’t.

Reek didn’t touch him the next night, and the night after that, until Theon asked him. Then he made it so good Theon tore out a chunk of his hair while clinging on to it for dear life when Reek blew him. He slept without dreams, for once unbothered by the vision of two boys reaching forth their hands to him from a blazing fire.

The next day, they finally arrived.

 

When Theon looked at his good Reek in the trembling torchlight of the darkened chamber, he finally realised what that glint in his eyes looked like.

_…A dog,_ he thought wildly. _A dog waiting to be unleashed._

And then:

_But he promised, he – he told me he’d take me back–_

And Reek _smiled._

**Author's Note:**

> So... Iwan was kinda perfect in the latest ep, terrible in the best imaginable way. Like... pants-crappingly terrifying. Seriously though, after watching his scene I just wanted to crawl into a dark corner and weep... and also to lick his face. BUT FROM A SAFE DISTANCE (idk how that works). Dem eyes, dat voice, dat face, I just went full on ASDFGHJKL;OMGJFCBBQ. (And if HBO suddenly ran out of long wigs... well, I'm willing to look past it for the sake of how bloody perfect Iwan was.) Keep rockin bb, keep dat swag up. /rant  
> I've had this thing sitting around for a while, but only just now got around to posting it. I gotta say, I'm totally blameless for this one. There was this fab person who suggested that Ramsay probably worked, uh, harder to win Theon's trust during their little walk in the woods than we were shown (hi Snarka, ILU!), and then there was the awesome sternflammenden and her beautiful fic [Liberties](http://archiveofourown.org/works/766199), and that one particular hot scene from it which just stuck in my head and refused to leave. Also I wanted me some Reek, and one thing pretty much led to another.  
> Uh... sorry for the long note. I'll shut up now. *still way too excite about the 6th ep*


End file.
